A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy

By Laurence Sterne

'A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy' is a novel by Laurence Sterne as he was facing death. During this time, Sterne traveled through France and Italy as far south as Naples, and after returning determined to describe his travels from a sentimental point of view. The novel was extremely popular and influential and helped establish travel writing as the dominant genre of the second half of the 18th century. Unlike prior travel accounts which stressed classical learning and objective non-personal points of view, this book emphasized the subjective discussions of personal taste and sentiments, of manners and morals over classical learning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Nov 19, 2019
• ISBN: 4057664145680

Laurence Sterne

Irish-born Laurence Sterne was an eighteenth century English author and Anglican clergyman. Though he is perhaps best known as a novelist, Sterne also wrote memoirs, articles on local politics, and a large number of sermons for which he was quite well known during his lifetime. Sterne’s works include The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, and the satire A Political Romance (also known as The History of a Good Warm Watch-Coat). Sterne died in 1768 at the age of 54.

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Laurence Sterne

A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy

Published by Good Press, 2022

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EAN 4057664145680

Table of Contents

CALAIS.

THE MONK. CALAIS.

THE MONK. CALAIS.

THE MONK. CALAIS.

THE DESOBLIGEANT. CALAIS.

PREFACE. IN THE DESOBLIGEANT.

CALAIS.

IN THE STREET. CALAIS.

THE REMISE DOOR. CALAIS.

THE REMISE DOOR. CALAIS.

THE SNUFF BOX. CALAIS.

THE REMISE DOOR. CALAIS.

IN THE STREET. CALAIS.

THE REMISE. CALAIS.

THE REMISE. CALAIS.

THE REMISE. CALAIS.

IN THE STREET. CALAIS.

MONTREUIL.

MONTREUIL.

MONTREUIL.

MONTREUIL.

A FRAGMENT.

MONTREUIL.

THE BIDET.

NAMPONT. THE DEAD ASS.

NAMPONT. THE POSTILION.

AMIENS.

THE LETTER. AMIENS.

THE LETTER.

PARIS.

THE WIG. PARIS.

THE PULSE. PARIS.

THE HUSBAND. PARIS.

THE GLOVES. PARIS.

THE TRANSLATION. PARIS.

THE DWARF. PARIS.

THE ROSE. PARIS.

THE FILLE DE CHAMBRE. PARIS.

THE PASSPORT. PARIS.

THE PASSPORT. THE HOTEL AT PARIS.

THE CAPTIVE. PARIS.

THE STARLING. ROAD TO VERSAILLES.

THE ADDRESS. VERSAILLES.

LE PATISSIER. VERSAILLES.

THE SWORD. RENNES.

THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.

THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.

THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.

THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.

CHARACTER. VERSAILLES.

THE TEMPTATION. PARIS.

THE CONQUEST.

THE MYSTERY. PARIS.

THE CASE OF CONSCIENCE. PARIS.

THE RIDDLE. PARIS.

LE DIMANCHE. PARIS.

THE FRAGMENT. PARIS.

THE FRAGMENT. PARIS.

THE FRAGMENT, AND THE BOUQUET. PARIS.

THE ACT OF CHARITY. PARIS.

THE RIDDLE EXPLAINED. PARIS.

PARIS.

MARIA. MOULINES.

MARIA.

MARIA. MOULINES.

THE BOURBONNNOIS.

THE SUPPER.

THE GRACE.

THE CASE OF DELICACY.

CALAIS.

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When I had fished my dinner, and drank the King of France’s health, to satisfy my mind that I bore him no spleen, but, on the contrary, high honour for the humanity of his temper,—I rose up an inch taller for the accommodation.

—No—said I—the Bourbon is by no means a cruel race: they may be misled, like other people; but there is a mildness in their blood. As I acknowledged this, I felt a suffusion of a finer kind upon my cheek—more warm and friendly to man, than what Burgundy (at least of two livres a bottle, which was such as I had been drinking) could have produced.

—Just God! said I, kicking my portmanteau aside, what is there in this world’s goods which should sharpen our spirits, and make so many kind-hearted brethren of us fall out so cruelly as we do by the way?

When man is at peace with man, how much lighter than a feather is the heaviest of metals in his hand! he pulls out his purse, and holding it airily and uncompressed, looks round him, as if he sought for an object to share it with.—In doing this, I felt every vessel in my frame dilate,—the arteries beat all cheerily together, and every power which sustained life, performed it with so little friction, that ’twould have confounded the most physical précieuse in France; with all her materialism, she could scarce have called me a machine.—

I’m confident, said I to myself, I should have overset her creed.

The accession of that idea carried nature, at that time, as high as she could go;—I was at peace with the world before, and this finish’d the treaty with myself.—

—Now, was I King of France, cried I—what a moment for an orphan to have begg’d his father’s portmanteau of me!

THE MONK.

CALAIS.

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I had scarce uttered the words, when a poor monk of the order of St. Francis came into the room to beg something for his convent. No man cares to have his virtues the sport of contingencies—or one man may be generous, as another is puissant;—sed non quoad hanc—or be it as it may,—for there is no regular reasoning upon the ebbs and flows of our humours; they may depend upon the same causes, for aught I know, which influence the tides themselves: ’twould oft be no discredit to us, to suppose it was so: I’m sure at least for myself, that in many a case I should be more highly satisfied, to have it said by the world, I had had an affair with the moon, in which there was neither sin nor shame, than have it pass altogether as my own act and deed, wherein there was so much of both.

—But, be this as it may,—the moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was predetermined not to give him a single sous; and, accordingly, I put my purse into my pocket—buttoned it—set myself a little more upon my centre, and advanced up gravely to him; there was something, I fear, forbidding in my look: I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.

The monk, as I judged by the break in his tonsure, a few scattered white hairs upon his temples, being all that remained of it, might be about seventy;—but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in them, which seemed more temper’d by courtesy than years, could be no more than sixty:—Truth might lie between—He was certainly sixty-five; and the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seem’d to have been planting-wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.

It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted,—mild, pale—penetrating, free from all commonplace ideas of fat contented ignorance looking downwards upon the earth;—it look’d forwards; but look’d as if it look’d at something beyond this world.—How one of his order came by it, heaven above, who let it fall upon a monk’s shoulders best knows: but it would have suited a Bramin, and had I met it upon the plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it.

The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes; one might put it into the hands of any one to design, for ’twas neither elegant nor otherwise, but as character and expression made it so: it was a thin, spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the distinction by a bend forward in the figure,—but it was the attitude of Intreaty; and, as it now stands presented to my imagination, it gained more than it lost by it.

When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and laying his left hand upon his breast (a slender white staff with which he journey’d being in his right)—when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order;—and did it with so simple a grace,—and such an air of deprecation was there in the whole cast of his look and figure,—I was bewitch’d not to have been struck with it.

—A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous.

THE MONK.

CALAIS.

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—’Tis very true, said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address;—’tis very true,—and heaven be their resource who have no other but the charity of the world, the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it.

As I pronounced the words great claims, he gave a slight glance with his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic:—I felt the full force of the appeal—I acknowledge it, said I:—a coarse habit, and that but once in three years with meagre diet,—are no great matters; and the true point of pity is, as they can be earn’d in the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged and the infirm;—the captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions, languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the order of mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I, pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully should it have been open’d to you, for the ransom of the unfortunate.—The monk made me a bow.—But of all others, resumed I, the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have the first rights; and I have left thousands in distress upon our own shore.—The monk gave a cordial wave with his head,—as much as to say, No doubt there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our convent—But we distinguish, said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal—we distinguish, my good father! betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labour—and those who eat the bread of other people’s, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, for the love of God.

The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass’d across his cheek, but could not tarry—Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in him;—he showed none:—but letting his staff fall within his arms, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and retired.

THE MONK.

CALAIS.

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My heart smote me the moment he shut the door—Psha! said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times—but it would not do: every ungracious syllable I had utter’d crowded back into my imagination: I reflected, I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind language.—I consider’d his gray hairs—his courteous figure seem’d to re-enter and gently ask me what injury he had done me?—and why I could use him thus?—I would have given twenty livres for an advocate.—I have behaved very ill, said I within myself; but I have only just set out upon my travels; and shall learn better manners as I get along.

THE DESOBLIGEANT.

CALAIS.

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When a man is discontented with himself, it has one advantage however, that it puts him into an excellent frame of mind for making a bargain. Now there being no travelling through France and Italy without a chaise,—and nature generally prompting us to the thing we are fittest for, I walk’d out into the coach-yard to buy or hire something of that kind to my purpose: an old désobligeant [562] in the furthest corner of the court, hit my fancy at first sight, so I instantly got into it, and finding it in tolerable harmony with my feelings, I ordered the waiter to call Monsieur Dessein, the master of the hotel:—but Monsieur Dessein being gone to vespers, and not caring to face the Franciscan, whom I saw on the opposite side of the court, in conference with a lady just arrived at the inn,—I drew the taffeta curtain betwixt us, and being determined to write my journey, I took out my pen and ink and wrote the preface to it in the désobligeant.

PREFACE.

IN THE DESOBLIGEANT.

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It must have been observed by many a peripatetic philosopher, That nature has set up by her own unquestionable authority certain boundaries and fences to circumscribe the discontent of man; she has effected her purpose in the quietest and easiest manner by laying him under almost insuperable obligations to work out his ease, and to sustain his sufferings at home. It is there only that she has provided him with the most suitable objects to partake of his happiness, and bear a part of that burden which in all countries and ages has ever been too heavy for one pair of shoulders. ’Tis true, we are endued with an imperfect power of spreading our happiness sometimes beyond her limits, but ’tis so ordered, that, from the